How My Fear Of Spiders Came About
by LuminoSpirit
Summary: One Shot! All he wanted was to get some of his pictures published for The Daily Bugle. Now it's Midnight, his bus is late, and it's pouring with rain. As if it couldn't get any worse, when the bus finally does come, some weirdos decide to shoot the place up! Peter blames his Parker Luck. Warning: Includes gore and violence.


**A/N: Hi. I spiralled down into a pit of writer's block, and tried to dig myself out with this. I have no other excuse. I'll update my other story as soon as I can, but please be patient. Sorry. Hehe, anyway, if you only know me by this story then please ignore what I just said, and enjoy the story (and live, knowing that the guy reassuring Charlie is called Dean, and I, personally, ship them)!**

 **(Edit: So I decided to check if there is still a whole load of code. And there is. There is so much. This is going to take a long while to get rid of. I should find a more convenient way to upload this stuff. Sorry if there are any mistakes)!**

The last bus isn't coming. It is almost midnight, and for the better part of an hour I've been standing in the rain, clutching at my portfolio, camera slung around my neck. I have hiked up my jacket's collar to try to protect my Yashica Electro 35 from the rain, but I can still see flecks of water dotting its body. How am I going to explain the hour to Aunt May and Uncle Ben?

Standing in a crowd of about ten other people, all of whom are noticeably older, I feel a bit anxious. There is an old lady in a pink overcoat who looks about as happy as a blob-fish (that is to say, not at all), but the rest seem to be severe office workers from the Oscorp building just a block over. A pair of them look extra shifty, so I am staying as far away from them as possible.

I grip tightly at my plastic portfolio, the zip along the top biting at my cold fingers. The shifty-looking guys are starting to hop about frustratedly, and I know that anyone would; we've been here a while. But they look dodgy, and it's making me kind of jumpy, especially when one of them is holding a small case covered in a mysterious cloth. It could just be a project. It might be work that they were sent home with to do. But they are standing huddled together like a couple of penguins in a storm, and they feel a bit off. I don't know, maybe I'm worrying about nothing.

And maybe I am, because the bus did come in the end. Its white and blue surface is flecked with mud and rain, and it looks like a pretty sad excuse for a bus, but at least it's here. I tried to go in last, but the shifty guys stayed way behind, so I have to go in before them. Pulling out my bus pass from my back pocket, I glance furtively behind at them and climb aboard.

Despite my misgivings, it is warm inside, and the driver barely glances my way. He probably didn't even notice the two guys at my back. I stuff my pass back into my jeans and waddle awkwardly up to one of the middle seats. Setting my portfolio at my feet, I curl up in the seat by the window, and rest my head against the glass.

The two guys sit behind me, shuffling a bit and bumping the case against the my seat. Steeling myself, I wrap my fingers around my portfolio again, and settle in for a long bus ride. It would be awkward if I moved now. 

The guys behind me are talking in low voices, as if they're hiding something. Or planning something. Oh god, what if I end up as their hostage? What if they're going to rob the bus? I mean, I don't know many people who would rob a bus (I don't actually know anyone who would rob anything at all, really), but hostages can come in handy, right? That's probably why they sat behind me. Oh god, oh god, oh god...

"... It's _fine_ , Charlie..."

"... Yeah, but do they..."

"... Calm..."

"... How am I..."

What are they talking about? Their voices are so low that I can only catch a few words but it sounds like something isn't going quite to plan. Or maybe they're paranoid. Or maybe _I'm_ paranoid? I sigh in frustration and press my head harder against the chilled glass, hoping that it will wipe away my panicking thoughts.

It's in the reflection of the glass' clear surface that I notice something a lot more frightening than two office workers and some box. Any chance of calming my thoughts has been lost. It's a little blurry, and I don't know if I'm seeing it right, but all the same my breathing starts coming in and out faster and faster, faster than a Hummingbird's wings. A man. A woman. Holding guns.

As if in slow motion, the woman stands; almost like a ballerina from a finishing jive. She slowly uncurls herself and stands tall. No one pays her any mind, but I am frozen in fear. I press my prickling back into the seat, shoulders knocking close to my neck. When she raises the gun, it isn't with malice or anger or murderous intent. It is with calm poise, and the gun almost seems a part of her. An extra finger, or a limb, I suppose. And it is pointing at me. I can't even bring myself to move, to dodge the bullet or just duck my head even a little. It fires.

I don't hear the sound, but I can see the glinting of cool gray metal as it clinks through the air, almost as delicately as she was. There are screams, but it all sound like white noise to me.

I close my eyes, waiting for the end. I never got a job at Oscorp, never saw my parents again. I never finished school, and I never found out if my photos got published in The Daily Bugle. But most of all, I never got to say goodbye to Aunt May and Uncle Ben. This is it. This was my life.

... Except, when I open my eyes, I don't see blood gushing from my chest. It's not even trickling. But the gun was fired, right?

I look back up to the man and woman, who are both stood up and shouting at each other and others. What happened? I double check myself, but I'm perfectly alive. There are no bullets lodged in me.

I look around, but there's no one in front of me, and the only people behind me are right at the back, and...

My eyes widen and I choke on a lump of bile that feels almost too large for my throat. I feel like throwing up. Blood _is_ gushing, just not from my chest. She wasn't aiming for me.

Instead, one of the men is lying, face up on the floor. I wish he was face down.

Shattered glass is everywhere, and when I touch my face, it is littered with small fragments of it, and cuts equally as small drip with thin blood. But this is nothing.

The man... the guy... I don't even know his name. He's almost wearing red clothes, like some weird fashion statement. His eyes are wide open, and if you only glance, he looks completely alive. But I know from the screams, the yells, and the horrified stares that he is not. I don't know his name. I thought he was terrifying, with his hood and mysterious package. But now I can see that he's just a normal man, wearing a red coat and red dress trousers, and strange red makeup all over his face. He has a fashionable haircut, and colourful eyes. He must have a girlfriend, or maybe a wife and kids, because he's very handsome. Not like a bad guy at all. I can't believe I thought that he was scary. Guilt thrashes in my belly like a bad stomach ache. No, he can't be dead. He's just a normal bloke, like me or anyone else on this bus or in the city.

I touch his face, trying to feel for breath. I don't remember climbing over the seats, but that doesn't matter. I can't feel anything, but that can't be true. He's just a guy. Why wouldn't he be breathing? Only rich business owners and senators and people form movies get shot like this. He's just like everyone on this bus: Normal. A civilian. He probably has a family and a job and friends and people who care about him and who he cares about too. Like anyone else. Why isn't he breathing? Why isn't his heart beating? Why is he going cold?

A drop slither up my arm. It could be sweat or blood or maybe even a tear. Am I crying? Why am I crying? Is that a scream? It sounds awfully close to me.

... Is that me?

My hands touch my face and mouth, and I can feel it open, but there's no sound. I can't hear anything.

The drop crawls over my shoulder and into the crook of my neck, hiding in the dip of my collar bone.

It then occurs to me that droplets don't crawl. And they definitely don't crawl _up_ , of all directions. Gravity makes sure of that. And I'm weeping over a stranger's body, and in full sight of everyone on the bus. Including the ballerina-woman and the man. It also occurs to me that I can't bring myself to care. I feel exhausted. I just want to sleep, is that so much to ask for...?

A sharp pinch at the curve by my neck thrust me from my thoughts. A packet of air escaped my throat and sent me sprawling to the floor, landing in a puddle of wet. Burning pain scatters from my neck like liquid heat, and spills through my body, filling every nook and cranny with aching fever. A colony of ants must have settled over my neck and shoulder, scuttling about over my skin and beneath my flesh. And then everything is cool again.

Have I been shot? Why am I cold? ...Am I dead? But no. I don't feel dead. In fact, I feel more alive than I have ever felt before. Suddenly I can hear everything; the white noise has lifted like thick fog clearing from the air. Feet in shoes, clothes on skin, people on a bus. But also cars in the distance, and is that a siren? No, it is many sirens: police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks. Waves lap at a dock not too far away, dogs yap at cats, cats hiss at each other, people jabber into telephones and at each other. Some people are shouting, others whispering, and some are just muttering to themselves. A gun clicks, an arm shifts, breathe in, breathe out.

A shock of electricity in the back of my head shouts in my ear. _Danger! Get out the way! Run! Danger!_ But I don't need to be told, I can smell the metal and the smoke and hear the bang-whistle that sounds more like a ship's blow horn than a gunshot.

Without even thinking, I leap up and away, higher than I have ever jumped. Higher than anyone has ever jumped, probably.

My head feels a lot more clear. Everything seems so much more distinct. My brain works faster, knowledge processing faster, surroundings absorbed like sunlight on leaves. I understand what I need to do before I have even comprehended it on a conscious level. The man and woman are on the floor, knocked out cold and I am holding the guns long before I even realised I had raised a finger.

Someone is dialling a number. Three taps: tap, tap tap. Nine, one, one? The police! There must be people hurt, too. And who does it look like is to blame? The two unconscious people near the back of the bus, or the person that knocked them out, holding two guns? There are witnesses, but who wants to even look at someone who barely comprehends what they've done, who doesn't even remember doing it? I've seen the stigma that mutants have from the media. I'm not stupid. No one is supposed to be able to hear the sniffing of a dog ten alleys away. What do I do?

I look at the bodies, and then at the crowd of people, and then back to the bodies. I can practically smell the fear. I make a decision. It's probably a stupid one.

Grabbing my portfolio, I plow through the window, into the hammering rain that stabs at my back, glass littering the ground and my clothes.

I run all the way home, even though it's half an hour away. I don't even feel tired when I get there. The cold barely bothers me, but when I open the old, familiar wooden door and feel the heat on my face, I finally realise that I am colder than a block of ice.

I start to take off my shoes, which are smaller than they should be, so I have to fight them off. I enter into the living room, but I am suddenly engulfed in a warm embrace, arms holding me softly but firmly. I blink my eyes up to her. My Aunt. And to the left, my Uncle. I think back over what happened on the bus. The blood, the pain, the heat, the cold, the confusion. Tears start to gather behind my eyes, but I have no idea why. All I know is that I'm home.

 **.o0|O|0o.**

The next day, a news article had already been published:

 _ **Mutants: Friend or Foe?**_

 _Late last night, there was a shooting on a bus. One man has been murdered. The culprits have been detained, and were found wearing the same uniform with an emblem emblazoned onto them. "The symbol depicts a skull with six tentacles in a circle," says a police officer. "If anyone happens to notice a similar pattern on clothing, please alert the police. This could be a new and dangerous illegal gang in New York." But this wasn't the most exciting thing about the accident: there to save the day was... a Mutant._

 _Eyewitness accounts say that the Mutant was a young male of about fifteen. He has brown hair and hazel eyes. "He jumped higher than an Olympian ever could!" Says a witness. "I thought that he was going to bust open the roof, but he didn't. And then he beat up those guys faster than I could blink! He moved so fast... he saved my life. I don't think that all Mutants can be evil, especially after this._

 _But is this true? Overnight, rumours have spread about this young Mutant. Is he a part of a rival gang? Do they plan to take over the human race? Was he even a Mutant at all? And, most of all, who is he?_


End file.
